


the (not so) great british bake off

by besidemethewholedamntime



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Birthday baking, Fluff, M/M, Non-SHIELD AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besidemethewholedamntime/pseuds/besidemethewholedamntime
Summary: "There’s a rather unsettling noise, and he turns just in time to see the cake completely cave in the middle, ruining any last chance there might have been of salvaging it. Fitz sighs deeply, a real lung-emptying sigh, and pinches the bridge of his nose tight. This thing has been such a headache, and if he didn’t love Hunter so much then he wouldn’t have even bloody bothered in the first place."Fitz tries to bake a birthday cake for Hunter. Perhaps it doesn't go according to plan.
Relationships: Leo Fitz/Lance Hunter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	the (not so) great british bake off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lazyfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyfish/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Al! You absolutely wonderful bean! I hope you have the best day because you most definitely deserve it for being as amazing as you are. Thank you for being you!
> 
> Here's some FitzHunter and birthdays to celebrate yours! I've never written this ship before so I hope it's alright and I hope you enjoy!

There’s icing on the floor and a cherry has gotten itself stuck on the ceiling. The cabinet doors are sticky with melted butter and the toaster has miraculously ended up coated in flour. In the middle of it, Fitz stands with his hands on his hips, surveying the attempt of a cake in front of him. The cake is drooping slightly in the centre and the edges are crispy and black. The pathetic attempt at icing drips off the lopsided top, not at all in an appetising way. The cherries, possibly long past their expiration date, seem to have collapsed in on themselves, and as Fitz attempts to tell himself _it’s not really that bad,_ one drops off the side with the running icing and lands with an audible _plop_ on the counter.

“This is ridiculous,” he tells himself. “Bloody ridiculous.”

It’s not Hunter’s birthday until tomorrow, but he’d wanted the cake made today so he could spend tonight organising the decorations, so when Hunter left for work at 7 am tomorrow morning, all he had to do was put them up, put out the food, and wait for the guests to arrive. Parties have never been Fitz’s strong suit, and clearly, neither is baking, but he just wanted to do something nice and lovely for the man he’d quite gladly spend the rest of his life with.

The ingredients for the cake weren’t the best, that he’ll admit. They were bought rather cheaply from the newsagents at the bottom of the street. London rent and London shopping eats away most of their money each month, and as a result it’s 39p flour and 15p eggs that currently litter the kitchen worktop. In all honesty he hadn’t really thought it mattered, and perhaps it still doesn’t. Perhaps it’s his technique which is sadly lacking in quality.

His mum was never really a baker, and she still isn’t. A nurse in the hospital, his birthday cakes were always made by his gran and then when she died it was always something from Marks & Spencer if there was money, or Tesco if there wasn’t. Unfortunately, the state of Fitz’s finances doesn’t even stretch that far, the last of it having been used on the party decorations and the train fare for Hunter’s parents to come and surprise their son at the weekend.

“Looks like it’s a trip back to the shop,” he mutters, without hope. This is his third attempt at such a cake, and he doubts four, five, or even six will be of much improvement.

He’s never been much of a cook, but he thought even he would be able to manage a cake. He’s an engineer for goodness sake. He can build marvellous things from nothing, can see in his mind exactly what he wants to create and then create it, just like that. His talent clearly only covers inedible things. Add a bit of flour or an egg and the whole thing is a disaster, as evidenced by the buttery handprints that make it a task to even turn on the tap to wash his hands.

There’s a rather unsettling noise, and he turns just in time to see the cake completely cave in the middle, ruining any last chance there might have been of salvaging it. Fitz sighs deeply, a real lung-emptying sigh, and pinches the bridge of his nose tight. This thing has been such a headache, and if he didn’t love Hunter so much then he wouldn’t have even bloody bothered in the first place.

Maybe he can ask someone else to bring a cake to the party tomorrow. Mack’s coming, and he’s probably a pretty good baker. It seems like something he’d be good at, but then Fitz remembers his own skillset and how it’s not always transferable. Or Jemma? Jemma’s good at everything. Then, with a slight wince, he remembers the time in university halls when she’d set fire to a tea-towel trying to get a pan out of the oven and he thinks that this is probably the one thing she doesn’t excel at. Daisy doesn’t even pretend she can cook, and told him as much when he asked her about bringing a little something. There’s Elena, but whenever she makes food, she tends to _rush_ it, as if forgetting that not everything can be as quick as her, and so everything tends to come out slightly raw.

It’s unbelievable, it really is, but Fitz comes out as the best baker except he’s really, truly, completely awful and the cake currently slinking down the kitchen cabinet is a testament to that.

One wallet-emptying trip to the newsagents later and he stands in front of the now slightly cleaner kitchen worktop, the ingredients for attempt number four weighed out into separate bowls in order to try and be absolutely perfect. He has the recipe printed in front of him and takes a deep, cleansing breath and starts methodically following through, hoping that by some divine miracle his luck changes.

It is of absolutely no surprise when, forty-five minutes later, the cake is as flat as a pancake on the cooling rack, the icing is horribly lumpy, and there’s a dismal looking yolk from an unfortunate egg accident sitting in pride of place on the floor.

“Shite,” Fitz says, feeling his bottom lip poke out and a deep sense of failure fill him from the toes up. “Shite shite shite.”

-x-

Hunter walks through the door in a surprisingly jovial mood. Today’s shift wasn’t so bad and it’s a whole thirteen hours before he has to be back, a _nd_ he gets to finish early tomorrow to celebrate his birthday which he’s sure (if he knows Fitz, which of course he does) involves some sort of surprise.

The smell of burning is what hits his nostrils first, followed by the smoky haze that fills the flat. This is certainly a surprise, but just not of the variety he was expecting.

“What the hell?” He shouts, knowing there’s no fire because the alarm is surprisingly silent, but also not seeing any other explanation. “Fitz? What the hell’s happened?”

Fitz appears out of the haze, looking as though he’s aged ten years. There’s flour in his hair which does nothing to help his aged appearance, and there’s something on his shirt which just looks as though it has a weird consistency. Hunter’s heart skips at the sight of him regardless, the way it always does after a hard shift, knowing the man he loves can take all of his cares away in a second.

“What happened to you?”

Fitz’s sighs so deeply it’s a wonder it ever stops. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“And it is, believe me.” Hunter’s eyebrows draw together. “Not the kind you were expecting though, eh?”

“No.” Fitz rubs the back of his neck, staring at the ground as though it will provide him with a way out. “I tried to bake you a cake.”

His jaw almost drops to the floor, and it’s a conscious effort to keep it clamped shut. “No,” he exclaims.

Fitz nods mournfully.

“You can’t cook.”

Another mournful nod

“What in the hell possessed you to bake a cake?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise, you know, for your birthday. Thought it would be a nice thing to do considering it’s not like I can do much for you this year.”

Hunter’s heart feels like the size of a watermelon in his chest but he can’t get over the shock and the utter stupidity of a man who is literally a certified genius.

“You’re insane. Actually insane.” He smiles though because for how insane it is, it’s hilarious. “Can I see it?”

Fitz winces. “I’m not sure if you’re going to want to do that. It’s pretty bad in there.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Go on. Show us the damage.”

In Fitz’s defence, cake number six hasn’t turned out as terribly as all the others. It’s risen slightly and it’s definitely more golden than charcoal, but the shape of it is strange and there’s an odd lump on one of the sides that doesn’t quite go in when pressed. The best attempt though it may be, everything about it still screams _please don’t eat me._

Hunter can’t contain his laughter. “Oh my God.”

Fitz crosses his arms a little defensively and huffs, “I tried.”

“You tried something alright. There was an attempt, if it can be called that.”

His churlish attitude only makes Hunter laugh louder. Strangely enough it’s the best birthday present he could ever get. He clocks the ingredients on the side of the counter. “No wonder it didn’t work, with stuff like that.”

“It was all I could get,” Fitz huffs again. “The second time there was less choice.”

“The second time?”

“Uh, yeah.” More rubbing of the back of the neck, avoidance of Hunter’s eyes. “This might not be the first attempt.”

There’s a reason that Hunter does all of the cooking, and it’s a very good one. There’s a reason there’s a ban on Fitz making anything more strenuous than plain pasta, and if they ever needed any more proof then it’s staring them right in the face.

“How many attempts?” Hunter laughs, expecting a reasonable number and not the murmured _six_ that barely comes out of Fitz’s mouth.

“ _Six!”_ He all but screeches, eyebrows rising almost off his head. Fitz sheepishly shows him the evidence, which is currently lined up on the kitchen windowsill for no good reason at all.

“Sorry,” Fitz says. “Just wanted to make something nice.”

“I wouldn’t apologise, love. From what I can see, I’ve had a lucky escape.”

Fitz smiles but his eyes are still sad and it’s unbearable to look at so Hunter brings him in for a side-armed hug. For all the laughing and joking he’s actually deeply appreciative, and he knows it’s not something he’d ever be able to put into words.

“You didn’t have to, you know that yeah? I thought we agreed to no big birthday things this year.”

Money’s been tight, no getting away from it, and they had agreed that this would be a low-key affair this year. Not that Hunter can find fault in it, he knows he probably would have tried to do the same thing.

“I just didn’t want you to have nothing for your birthday, is all.”

“How much did all this cost though?” He sighs gently as Fitz rests his head on his shoulder. “I didn’t want you to bankrupt yourself for me.”

“I didn’t-” Fitz starts but cannot finish. “Doesn’t matter. I’d bankrupt myself for you any day.”

“You’re an idiot,” Hunter sighs, looking at the sad remnants of cake and feeling nothing but a rush of love and his watermelon-sized heart beat rapidly in his chest. “A bloody idiot.” He looks at Fitz, pulls him closer. “You’re lucky I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Al!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. It's a crazy time so it's enough even if you've read it!


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